A Happy Little Light
by BarefootDancer
Summary: An important thing to remember: Lovino is not always in a bad mood. Often he's in a good mood, like when he's baking in the kitchen at 2am, having drunk enough wine to not really care that there's flour everywhere. Right now is not one of those times and it has everything to do with the bakery across the street - and more specifically, the man who runs it. (Bakery!Spamano in Italy)
1. A Stranger

Au: Spamano. They both work at rival bakeries.

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Hetalia, sadly. Many tears.

Ugh I hope you guys like this because I think the idea of them being rival bakers is so adorable and Romano is such a little peapod help.

* * *

A Happy Little Light:

Lovino is in a bad mood.

The important thing to remember is that Lovino is not always in a bad mood. Often, he's in a good mood, like when his brother calls on the shop sometimes; or when he finds tomatoes at the market; or when he's alone in the kitchen, baking at 2 am, after having drunk enough wine to not really care that there's flour _everywhere_.

Right now is not one of those times. And it has _everything_ to do with the bakery across the street.

* * *

It's morning. The streets of Altamura are empty at this hour, most civilians still abed. The streets are cobbled in most places, and they wind up and down through the city. Altamura is one of the oldest cities in Southern Italy, and on mornings like these, when the sky is a pale, pale blue, you can feel its history in the air.

Lovino loves this town. Born and raised here, this is his home. He loves the way the air smells during a storm, wind blown in from the Mediterranean; the way the marketplaces fills with people at mid-day and all you hear is laughter and singing. He even loves the way the political murals are splashed secretly in the alleys, and where, in the deepest parts of town, some of the buildings still have bullet holes from the second World War. It is not an entirely happy city - almost like an old dog, you can find tired sadness around some corners, napping with the dust and spiders. But it's mostly balanced out by the children playing soccer in the streets.

He owns a bakery on Via Libertá. It's small, and has a faded red awning. The door is green and the paint is flaking in a couple places. But that's okay. This was his father's bakery, and his grandfather's bakery; this bakery is as special as a family member to him. Before dawn, he rises and fires up his oven, shapes the loaves rising overnight, and places them in the oven with a large wooden paddle. And when they're done, he removes them as gently as he would carry a child, and stacks them on the shelves behind the counter. He repeats this day after day after day, but he doesn't get tired of it because the wood smoke and ciabatta and espresso practically runs in his blood.

This morning is special. Lovino balances a crate of tomatoes on his hip as he digs in his wallet for some euros for the produce delivery man. He's been up since four, and the bakery oven is already fired up, baking this morning's first batch of bread. Pulling out a few bills as payment, he balances the tomatoes on his shoulder, along with a half-flat of basil and some heads of radicchio, and heads for the bakery door. The Italian struggles to nudge the door open, trying with his elbow and then his hip, but he can't get it open. Resigning himself to setting his things down, he's about to put the lettuce on the ground when he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders - the tomatoes? - as a tanned arm reaches past him to twist the knob.

Lovino turns around, and is almost blinded by light. It's not coming from the sun, but the man in front of him. He holds the crate of tomatoes in one hand and ruffles his curly, dark hair with the other. His affable grin shines with a happy little light. The stranger's eyes crinkle, and he says, "I think you could use a little help," before toeing open the door to Lovino's bakery and waltzing inside. Lovino's eyebrows quirk in irritation as he sees the man prance inside like he owns the place. Casually, he follows the stranger into the back room - who does he think he is, marching about other people's stores? - and sets the basil on a counter off to the side. Only then do the two pause to study each other.

The Italian looks the newcomer over - he's tall and slender, but the thin material of his longsleeve betray his deceptively lissome build; those shoulders and that waist are strong. His hair is dark and curly, like the bittersweet chocolate Lovino fills the cornettos with. And his eyes - his eyes are as something else entirely that _are distracting Lovino from the task at hand._

"I like your bakery."

The comment startles Lovino. "What?"

"I said, I like your bakery. It feels warm inside, like a home. This is a happy place." The man speaks Italian with a curious accent. "I'm Antonio. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."

Oh. So he's Spanish. Explains the accent. Lovino is growing more vexed by the minute. This bizarrely cheerful, _Spanish_ man has just waltzed into his shop like he owns it, and thinks Lovino needs to know his middle name _?_ His eyebrow twitches again.

"Lovino. Lovino Vargas." It slips out, a matter of habit. Oh well. It doesn't do to be rude early in the morning.

"Pleased to meet you, Lovino," Antonio says, and Lovino has the strange feeling that he actually means it. The Spaniard snags a tomato from the box, polishes it on his shirt sleeve, and takes a bite before Lovino can protest. With a wave, he starts toward the door. "Ciao, Lovi." There's tomato juice on his fingers.

Lovino is now severely irked. The bizarrely cheerful, _attractive_ Spaniard has just barged into his shop, dropped his middle name in the first few minutes, stolen a tomato, and given Lovino _a nickname_. The Italian clicks his tongue and turns away from the door. He has no time for pretty men with sunshine smiles and tomato lips.

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 **A/N:** I hope you like the first chapter, guys! There will be lots more to come! Reviews give me life so please oblige a poor soul like me.


	2. Figs and a Surprise

**A/N:**

Hey guys! Second chapter is here already! What do you guys think? (I wasn't planning on publishing it so soon after the last one, but oh well. I was too excited.)

In any case, rate and review because your feedback is my sustenance and motivation!

The next morning, sun barely risen, Lovino is unlocking the door to his bakery, jangling his key ring noisily and whistling a slightly out-of-tune version of Bella Ciao, when he sees a familiar figure heading up the lane. His hands are in his pockets, and this time he's in a different shirt, but Lovino wouldn't mistake him for anyone else.

Antonio.

Lovino pauses a moment, keys partially inserted into the lock, and watches as Antonio takes out a key ring of his own, unlocks a door in the building across the street, and disappears inside. The building used to be another restaurant, but it closed some time ago. The shutters of the building fly open, and Lovino jumps at the sight of Antonio in the window, smiling his ridiculously happy smile. The Spaniard gives a little wave, and Lovino turns around hastily, feeling like he's been caught snooping. He hurries inside and tries not to look at the storefront across the street for the rest of the day.

Fat lot of good that does. All day, he sneaks glances out the window, wondering what Antonio could be doing in a building that's been deserted for a while now.

At 6:30, Lovino takes his usual flats of produce from the delivery man and spots Antonio sweeping the sidewalk. He can't help but notice how the muscles in the other man's forearms tighten as he passes the broom over the ancient pavement. Lovino doesn't know why this upsets him, but it does, and he stalks inside with a barely civil dismissal to the delivery man.

At 7:00 the Italian sets some chairs out by the door and spots Antonio heading around the side of the building with a bucket of soapy water and a rag cloth. Lovino ducks back inside but continues to observe as the other man dips the towel into the bucket and begins to polish the windows. He notices how Antonio's broad shoulders bunch as he reaches above his head, but he pretends not to and turns away with a huff.

He can't ignore him for long.

At 8:00, he catches sight of Antonio again. He's carrying a bucket of paint, and he sets to work giving the front door of the shop a new coat of paint. Some young women titter into their cappuccinos as they watch the handsome Spaniard move about in his paint smock. Lovino rolls his eyes and ignores them.

From 10:00 to 4:00 in the evening, the bakery is a steady stream of customers, and the bread and pastry stockpiled that morning begins to dwindle. Lovino loses sight of Antonio amidst the crowd of people wanting espresso and paninis and cornettos and pane casereccio with tomato relish. There's color and music in the streets, and Lovino isn't always a happy person, but this is his favorite time of day: when the lanes are singing.

The day ends and he doesn't see Antonio again, but the newly-painted door - a disgustingly happy butter yellow - seems to mock him as Lovino passes.

The next morning, Lovino is up and about again, and this time he studiously ignores the building across the street. Mostly.

At 8:00, somewhere between making a delivery to Signorina Ochipinti and setting a fresh batch of ciabatta on the counter, he spies Antonio again. He mutters, slightly distractedly, to his customer, "Yes, yes, Signora Pappalardo. Tomato season is just kicking off - expect the best of the crop to be here by next week. Have a lovely day," as he observes the other man out of the corner of his eye. As the portly woman waddles off, a whole pugliese clutched under one round arm, he sees the Spaniard set a can of white paint down on the sidewalk. The other man draws a brush out of his back pocket,and begins painting some letters on the window of the shop. The girls are back again today, tittering into their cappuccinos once more over how he moves - confidently, dancing to some tune in his head. Lovino glares at them and ignores the ass the Spaniard is flaunting in his battered levi's.

But he can't concentrate for long, because Antonio rounds the storefront once more, carrying a bag of potting soil over one shoulder. The young ladies have now abandoned the pretense of their coffees in favor of wholeheartedly devoting their attention to Antonio's toned upper body, outline visible through his thin red tee. He disappears, and then reappears with some terracotta pots under both arms, and the girls giggle into their hands. Lovino feels like throwing them out of the bakery.

The rest of the afternoon Antonio spends filling the pots with soil, mixing in peat and compost, and planting flowers. The young women have been sitting in the cafe all day now, and their cappuccinos are long gone, but Lovino can't really complain because he's been watching the Spaniard all day too. The trickle of customers fade away, and Antonio packs up, smacking off his leather gardening gloves and carrying away the leftover soil.

Now it's getting late - it must be past eight because the skies are darkening. Lovino takes the trash out, drops the metal lid back on the can with a tired clang, and heads back into his store. One more look around the back room - at the starter dough rising in the corner for the next day's loaves, and the tomatoes in the corner - and the Italian heads out front. he does a last check, observes all the chairs tucked up and the floor swept, and he walks out the door. He fumbles his key ring again, and with some difficulty manages to turn the finicky lock. Lovino turns to head towards home, and stops dead when he sees the storefront across the street. Antonio's storefront.

The sidewalk is swept clean, glass panes washed, door scrubbed, flowers planted and awning dusted. it still looks a little worn at the edges, but is has a homey feel that Lovino thinks is unnatural. But what bothers him most is what Antonio painted in the window.

The words read, in curling white letters: _La Pastelería Del Sol_.

Lovino's brown furrows. A patisserie. A _Spanish_ patisserie. In the middle of rural southern Italy. He frowns. The bastard didn't even write the name in Italian. Lovino scoffs and turns away. It doesn't matter that that idiot spent all day fixing the place up - he'll prove to him that there is room for only one baker on La Via Libertá, and that is Lovino Vargas.


	3. Pastry Crumbs

The next day is a Sunday, and Lovino doesn't open his shop, but all day, he thinks about Antonio and the words on his storefront.

Lovino runs into Antonio the following Monday. the Spaniard is carrying a flat each of strawberries and tarantella figs. He stops Lovino with a sunny smile and says, "Hola, Lovi! Say, do you know where I can find some black mission figs? I can only seem to find the Italian ones." He gives a bit of an affable laugh at this, and raises the box of figs for emphasis. "I wanted to start out with some _pan de higo_ , but it's just not the same without Spanish figs." Antonio sticks his lip out petulantly, and Lovino's eye twitches. The idiot is in _Italy_ for Christ's sake - shouldn't he expect to find Italian figs?

"You didn't tell me."

"Tell you what, Lovi?"

"That you were a baker. That you were opening across the street from me."

Antonio's forehead creases. "Is it a problem? You seemed to be watching me work often enough." The confusion on his face is replaced by something sly.

Lovino straightens up. "My bakery has been in my family for generations. The Vargas men, baking is what we do. And I don't give a rat's ass about your _pastelería_ and your flowers and your newly painted front door. This is my street and my city and there's only room for one baker here: Me." He marches through his front door and this time really _doesn't_ look at Antonio all day. Not that it really matters - Antonio isn't outside the entire day, and the tittering young ladies pack up early out of disappointment.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Lovino looks up from the till to see an annoyingly familiar figure draped across his counter. Antonio. _Dio mio._

Antonio slouches across the counter, arms folded, rear sticking out. He's made himself completely at home and Lovino finds it annoying. Antonio, of course, looks up at him with that ridiculous smile and Lovino realize that he has _the greenest eyes he has ever seen._ It pulls at Lovino's chest in a way he doesn't appreciate.

"What are you doing here?" Lovino keeps his voice low - there are other people in the shop - but he lets a little irritation creep into his tone.

Again with the 'Hola, Lovi,' and then, "I'm here to order coffee."

Lovino gives him a look that would wither crepe paper. "You own a patisserie; I think you can figure out how to make your own _coffee_." He scowls, and then tacks on, "And my name is Lovino."

Antonio just smiles, and Lovino hates him because it's so hard to be annoyed at a man that is always smiling - it's just not fair.

A line is forming behind Antonio, and Lovino is desperate to move him along, so he turns to the person behind the Spaniard and says, "May I take your order?"

And he tries really hard to ignore the other man as the regulars shuffle forward for their morning espresso and cornettos, but as soon as the line shrinks, Antonio is back at the counter. "One black coffee, please."

Lovino shoots him another dirty glare, but turns away to fill his order. He brews the coffee so dark he hopes Antonio will choke on it, and he pours it into a chipped mug, and when he hands it to the other man he deliberately slops a little on the Spaniard's fingers, but Antonio only smiles, and passes him some euros, and takes a seat at a window table. He sits there for a good hour, and in that time Lovino manages to botch three orders because he's paying more attention to Antonio than the customers. Then Antonio stands to leave and he passes Lovino back the mug, says "thank you," and disappears out the door.

Antonio is back the morning after, and he brings a paperback with him. He takes another black coffee, and ignores Lovino's glare, and settles down at the same table by the window. He's here for three hours that day, and he only gets up to ask Lovino for a biscotti, which the Italian practically throws at him. Then Antonio settle back down, until it's time for him to leave, and he passes Lovino back his mug and says 'thank you,' one more time and disappears out the door for the second day in a row.

Antonio begins to show up at the coffee shop every day after that. It may be a week, or two - Lovino loses count of the days - but the other man consistently shows up on his doorstep like a stray cat looking for milk. He orders coffee and a biscotti and sits at the same table but the window every day. It's gotten to the point that it's now 'Antonio's table.' Of course, the cappuccino women hover like raptors over him, but the Spaniard pays them no mind. He has eyes only for 'Lovi,' as he's nicknamed the Italian, but Lovino can't bring himself to be cross because it's belied by the way his skin zaps with heat when their fingers brush as Antonio passes his coffee mug back. Antonio is now a permanent presence at the bakery, paperback books and work boots and all.

One Thursday, Antonio isn't there for coffee, and Lovino knows he should be happy, because why would he want a tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, stupid stupid _stupid_ Spaniard that smiles too much to be loitering in his bakery? But he can't help but feel a little disappointed too.

However, at 10:30 he sees the tall Spaniard turn the corner carrying an armload of chairs. He nudges his shop door open with his hip and tilts inside with his load. Antonio emerges momentarily and makes another short trip, this time holding some stacked tables aloft over his head. The cappuccino ladies are back today, and they watch with avid interest as Antonio effortlessly balances the tables with one hand and opens his shop door with the other. Lovino rolls his eyes.

The bell above the door jingles, and Lovino looks up from a pan of croccantini to find Antonio in the doorway. He's a little sweaty, his shirt is sticking to his chest in the mid-day sun, and his eyes - still so _green_ \- are pointed straight at Lovino. And he gives a ridiculous wave and a huge smile and says - far too loudly - "Good afternoon, Lovi!" And Lovino can't even be bothered to correct him.

Five pairs of eyes sweep to Lovino as the cappuccino girls stare at him over their coffee foam. _Nobody_ gives Lovino nicknames - he doesn't let them - and if Antonio is, _so help them God_ , because Antonio is _theirs_.

But Antonio marches past all of them with his easy, swinging gait and leans on Lovino's countertop. Lovino raises an eyebrow at him and his sunny grin.

"One black coffee, please."

"Are you ever going to order something other than coffee? You're not doing much in the way of keeping me in business."

"Haha, silly Lovi, we couldn't have that, now could we?" Antonio's tone is a mixture of childish worry and laughter. "In that case, I think I'll have a sfogliatelle, a cornetto, and two biscotti to go with," He grins once more.

Lovino looks at him blankly for a moment before his face crumples in anger. "What the hell? what are you going to do with all that pastry?"

"Just doing my duty to keep you in business." Another carefree smile.

The Italian shakes his head and mutters under his breath, but obliges Antonio, piling the goodies onto plates and sliding them across the counter. He moves over to the till and counts up the Spaniard's euros before handing him his coffee. Antonio balances the plates along one arm and tips an imaginary hat at Lovino before swaggering off to his usual table with his spoils.

Lovino can't resist looking at Antonio in amazement as the other man takes bite after bite, face lighting up as he savors the pastry. The Italian notices flakes of dough stuck all over Antonio's face, and he turns away, shaking his head. The Spaniard can be such a child sometimes.

Some time passes, and more customers flit in through the door. Lovino is just done polishing the counter when he looks up to see Antonio standing in front of him, mug and plates in hand. He swallows hard as he sees the pastry flecking the Spaniard's face, and it's out of his mouth before he can stop it -

"You have crumbs on your face, idiot." And he freezes. He wasn' supposed to say it aloud.

Antonio blinks, and then gives a sheepish laugh before passing a hand over his mouth. "Better?"

Lovino freezes, and is about to nod when he spots one last crumb at the corner of Antonio's mouth. Before he knows it, his hand is reaching out - the Spaniard's lips are surprisingly soft - to brush it away. He stops moving; for a moment Lovino can't breathe, a sentiment probably echoed by Antonio, considering the other man's wide-eyed gaze. Lovino snatches his hand away and mutters to the floor, "Yeah. All better now." He turns away and doesn't look back at Antonio, instead grabbing a broom to sweep at some imaginary dust on the floor.

Lovino doesn't look back, but he hears the clink of the plates being set on the counter, and then footsteps receding lightly, and then the tinkle of the bell as the other man walks out into the light of the Altamura sun.

The cappuccino girls's stares burn into Lovino's back as he faces away from the door, forehead propped up on his broom handle. _The Spaniard is ours._


	4. Speedwell Sky

**A/N:** these two are just so cute! I've been trying to keep a weekly schedule for these updates, but I'm hard-pressed to find time to work on this, not to mention I'm fighting writer's block. I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, honestly. IDK I hope you guys like it.

 _edit:_ (jan. 18) _I fixed some continuity errors in this chapter so I like how this reads a little better now. There's no big plot differences; I just changed some wording. I've neglected this story so bad - please forgive me!_

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Ch4

After the events on Thursday, the Spaniard avoids the bakery with determination. The cappuccino girls at first are smug, but their self-satisfied smiles slip away when they realize that if Antonio won't come by the bakery then they won't see him either. For over a week, there is no sign of Antonio. It's like he's vanished: he's not outside, he's not visible in the window, and he's not buying Lovino's pastry. There are sometimes noises coming from the store: power tools, and a couple of crashes, and once what may have been singing. But Antonio does not appear.

Lovino would never admit it to anyone, but he's beginning to miss those green eyes.

With every passing day that Antonio doesn't make an appearance, Lovino wonders if he somehow overstepped his boundaries with the pastry crumbs. For some reason, the Spaniard's opinion of him matters a great deal to Lovino, even if he doesn't know why. Lovino covertly begins to look for Antonio; at first it's small, like lingering in the alley in the morning, or finding excuses to step outside at midday, but soon it's so full-blown there's no way he can deny it: at one point he climbs up on some trash bins to peer in the back window of Antonio's shop (he falls and makes a shit-ton of noise and never tries that again).

The Thursday that marks a week following the Spaniard's disappearance passes uneventfully. The customers are the same, and the bread is the same, and the bakery is the same, but at the same time _they're not._ It's like a small bit of the sun has winked out, the corner Antonio usually occupies empty, foreign and _cold._ Lovino looks up at noon when the doorbell chimes, expecting him to be there in the doorway, and has no clue why he's so disappointed it's someone else jingling the bell.

Friday morning, the air is so crisp and clear it almost hurts to breathe. Despite the late-august heat that will come in a few hours, this dawn is raw. Lovino waits for the rattle of the canvas-covered produce truck as he shifts from foot to foot. He's bundled up in an old red sweatshirt; it's faded at the elbows and the hem has at least two holes. His battered Chuck Taylor's - an old gift from his brother- tap a quick rhythm on the cobble. It's seven, and the produce guy is a little late. The tan stucco buildings look blue in this watery, half-sun light. The _chug-chug_ of the old engine comes from around the corner, but it makes an unexpected stop. It's hydraulics hiss as it puts on the brakes, there's a _thump_ as the driver hops out, some scraping of produce crates, and an exchange of familiar voices. Lovino peers around the edge of the building to see the grocery van parked kitty-corner to Antonio's bakery. The only thing he can see from under the truck belly is some denim-clad calves - everything else is concealed by the canopy. Suddenly, there's a "Gracias, señor!" And the legs move out from behind the lorry.

The legs are attached to Antonio.

The Spaniard is wearing the same thing as he always is - jeans, a thin tee, and work boots - but the sight of him pinches Lovino's chest unhappily. The Italian is in plain sight, but he just can't move. Like a deer in headlights he stares until, as if pulled by string, Antonio's head turns. Their eyes lock together, and they both go as bright red as the crate of tomatoes Antonio is carrying. Lovino is the first one to move, whirling away from the street and back through the rear door, leaving the Spaniard standing in the shadow, head tilted and eyes blinking.

All too soon after his embarrassing flight, Lovino realizes he's forgotten to collect his produce. He does the walk of shame back out the door, glancing around quickly in search of lurking Spaniards - there are none - and snatches the vegetables from the delivery man in record time, leaving the bemused fool with a wad of euros in hand.

Back inside for the second time, Lovino rests his head against the wall and tries to calm his erratic breathing. He thinks of happy things: children and dogs and bread. He thinks of gross things: slime and intestines and rotten vegetables. None of it works and his head remains full of sunshine smiles and tomato lips. Antonio's name rises unbidden in his throat and to slap it out of the way, Lovino bangs his head against the wall. The pain flares in a fluorescent star, and it helps a little bit, so he does it again. And again.

Lovino turns away, head throbbing, lips tingly with the Spaniard's name.

That day, he has a very hard time concentrating. The pastry, normally so comforting to him, only serves to remind him of Antonio covered in crumbs. Which reminds him of how soft the Spaniard's lips were under his thumb, and then the way his eyes widened, and how he rushed out, and his eyes this morning in the newborn light and _it hurts._

 _Dio mio. He probably hates me - why else would he be hiding? That's what he's doing, isn't it - hiding? Oh, and this morning can't have helped either. What does he think, that I'm spying on him? Antonio probably thinks I'm hitting on him. He must be disgusted._

The image of Antonio's eyes widening in shock, stunned to paralysis, floats behind the Italian's eyelids. The sound of the clink of china on the counter and Antonio's silent but hasty retreat out the door plays over in his mind like a record stuck on repeat.

There's no one in the shop, which is uncharacteristic for a Friday like this. A glance at the wall clock reveals that it's six in the evening. To him, the day has passed in the time it took Lovino to blink. He doesn't even remember serving the customers that came in. Normally open until seven, Lovino decides to close early. Hanging the 'closed' sign in the window, he sweeps the floor clean of flour, observing the dying light out the window. It's not yet late enough for the sun to be truly setting, but the hints of fire and gold shine at the edge of the horizon. everything looks as if it has been given an egg yolk bath.

Lovino props the broom in the corner and grabs the bag of trash from it's place in the cupboard. Toting it through the back room, he flings open the alley door and swings the sack into the trash bin with a grunt. He gives a tired sigh and turns to head home. The sun slips behind the hill on the horizon; a seam of sky between the gold and the navy is olive green.

Matching eyes glint in the upper window of the building across the street, and they follow the Italian up the lane.

* * *

There's an tomato on the bakery doorstep when Lovino arrives the next morning. Lovino picks it up and turns it over and over in his palm, and he rolls his eyes. What kind of idiot would leave a tomato on his porch? He turns and scans the street, but no one is about this early in the morning. Lovino tucks the tomato into the pocket of his cable-knit jumper, the forest green one with the big pockets that his little brother made him - Lord knows the man has entirely too much time on his hands. One last glance down the lane, then the Italian jiggles the key in the finicky lock and steps inside.

Lovino mans the counter all day, scarcely pausing for a break, but every so often he glances at the tomato. It sits on the counter next to the till, and it gleams in the bakery light. He wonders who left it there (out of all things, why a tomato?), and what their motive is. Idly, he wonders if he knows the individual.

At 1:00 he pauses for a coffee break in response to a lull in the customers. Sitting down at a table, Lovino is in the middle of dunking a biscotti into his mug when he sees a battered 1998 SEAT Toledo pull up at the building across the street. The driver's door opens, and a pair of all-too-familiar work boots swing out. The boots are attached to a set of jean-clad legs, which are attached to a lean torso. Lovino dares raise his eyes further as the figure slides out of the car, and what he sees makes him drop his biscotti. Antonio.

The Spaniard strides to the rear of the car and swings the back open. He leans in and drags out a large brown box, staggering towards the front door in the manner of one carrying something heavy. Antonio nudges the door open with his hip and tilts inside. Lovino takes the opportunity to reach into his mug to retrieve the biscotti, now grown soggy around the edges. The coffee bites at his fingers and he hisses in pain.

Just then, Antonio reappears and catches sight of the Italian. Lovino, damp biscotti clutched between one red forefinger and thumb, looks up guiltily to see the Spaniard. The other man is blinking rapidly, and whether it's from surprise or the sun is anyone's guess. He turns his head away quickly and goes back to the trunk of his car, retrieving twice the number of boxes than previous. Antonio's back flexes as he tilts upright, and Lovino has the sudden thought that maybe the Spaniard uses his thin tee shirts to his advantage deliberately. The other man disappears inside his store again.

Antonio makes a series of trips within the next half hour, each with more and more boxes, until he is laden with a ridiculously precarious pile. The Cappuccino Women have made an appearance and they coo over the way Antonio almost deliberately flexes as he strides by. The Spaniard does not look at Lovino, but the Italian gets the sense that the other man is watching him to see if he's looking. As the clock hits 1:38, Antonio withdraws a stack of five boxes from the trunk and takes an unsteady step towards the shop. His load wobbles dangerously and he speeds up his pace to compensate. The Spaniard barely makes it inside, but even then there is a resounding crash, and from across the street Lovino can hear the resulting shout of " _Mierda_ , there go the spoons!" Lovino can't help but to smile. _cocky idiot._

Emerging rather sheepishly from the building, Antonio proceeds to take reduced loads for the rest of the hour. Nothing else is dropped. The day ends and the two pack up and go their separate ways without a word to each other.

Monday morning, Lovino finds a bundle of cosmos tied together with a twist of tall grass. It is tucked into the mail slot of the bakery door. Lovino tugs it out and almost misses the note tucked between the flat petals. It reads ' _Ciao, Bello.'_

Lovino blinks and looks hard at the paper. _Hello, Beautiful?_ the Italian wonders. _What's up with this? It must be some sort of prank,_ he decides, before heading in to fire up the oven. Antonio is outside that day, but he refuses to even so much as look in Lovino's direction, preferring to keep his head facing away. Antonio is slightly flushed, but the Italian puts it up to the late summer sun.

On Tuesday, there's a small painting waiting for him at the bakery. Lovino almost doesn't see it - it's tucked into the crack between the woodwork and glass of the window, but he pulls it out gently. It's of a little girl, running through a field of wildflowers. The sky is the color of speedwell blossoms. The acrylic is bumpy to the touch, and the thin cardboard medium is of loose-pressed fibers. Lovino wonders who is leaving these on his porch.

That day, Lovino hears the tinkling of the bell and he looks up. To his astonishment, Antonio stands in the doorway, looking for all the world like a small child expecting to be punished for eating too much cake. He shifts nervously from foot to foot in the entryway, looking around with caution. The Spaniard keeps his head down as he heads for the counter, and Lovino can see the flush spreading up the other man's neck. His ears wouldn't get redder if someone lit them on fire.

In a voice no louder than a whisper, Antonio says, "I would like a cup of black coffee, please." Before the Italian can make a quip about not ordering enough to keep him in business, he adds, "And a sfogliatelle, a cornetto, and two biscotti as well." He purses his lips and stares at an imaginary spot on the floor.

Lovino doesn't say anything as he pours hot water through the melitta cone, or as he slides the plate laden with pastry across the counter. The china makes a grating noise along the uneven wood counter, and the silence is oppressive as Antonio takes his dishes. He settles at his usual table with his obscene amount of sweets and digs in.

When he is finished, he places his dishes on the counter next to Lovino and turns to go, but the Italian, not even looking at him, murmurs, "You have crumbs on your face, _idiot_."

Antonio hastily brushes at his face and strides out the door. Lovino leans his head against the cool wall and heaves a sigh.

The next day, Antonio shows up again, once more ordering that ridiculous amount of pastry. He resumes his place at the window and tilts his chair back, basking in the afternoon sun. In the golden light, his skin looks like honey.

As Lovino takes out the trash that evening, he hears a clatter round front. He cautiously sets the lid back on the can and peers around the alleyway. There's a note sitting on the doorstep of the bakery, weighed down with a tiny origami turtle. _A tomato for a tomato is a fitting compensation, don't you think?_ it reads. The Italian looks up and down the lane, but as usual, there is no one there. He pockets the paper animal and locks up.

 _A tomato for a tomato,_ he muses as he heads home. _That must mean the tomato I have now. But whatever does the note mean about it being in exchange?_

* * *

 **A/N:** Guess who's leaving the presents on Lovi's door? (^-^). Gaahhh I love this pairing


	5. The Fingers of a Spanish Man

**A/N:** It literally has taken me hours to do research on Altamura's geography and food and climate and agriculture and oh my god writing about places you've never been is so hard! I'm not regretting it, though.

I am so sorry for my inconsistency! I promised myself when I started this that I would update every week. This, inevitably, under the burden of school, turned into every two weeks - why did I think it was a good idea to write two fics at once? Being monumentally stupid, I then decided to sign up for ISEF (national science fair) and audition for the pit orchestra of the musical my high school was producing. As you can imagine, little writing was accomplished, and I only completed part of a chapter over winter break. Now it's been over two months (I think) and I'm so sorry! Bear with me; I'll try to get a couple chapters done over the next week so I have a little to fall back on if in the future I fail to meet my deadlines. At least pit orchestra is over, though, so now I have more time - for a couple weeks I was at school for over fourteen hours a day on account of the musical, and had little leisure time whatsoever. My apologies!

comment, my lovelies! I would like to know what you guys want to see happen with this fic in the future! Critique is always good too!

* * *

Summer is ending, and the trees alongside La Via Matteo Renato Imbriani are turning gold. In the air is the smell of loam and of somnolence. Languid sunshine settles between rows in the vineyards, and the heady aroma of ripening fruit fills the air. Grape harvest will be here soon.

The first days of September are here, a hint of crisp chill in the morning air but the afternoon still warm and bright. In the evening when the sun sinks beneath the western hills of the city, the sky is a yellow gold. It makes Lovino feel like this time is a long rope of stretching honey.

Antonio still comes into bakery like clockwork, ordering the customary sfogliatelle, cornetto, and two biscotti. His chair by the window - it really is Antonio's chair now - has pea green paint flakes scraped all along the backrest from where the Spaniard leans it against the wall.

Antonio works on his bakery sometimes, but it's been a month since he showed up in Altamura and he still hasn't opened it. When Lovino asks him, all he says is, "my _pastelería_ is my baby girl. She needs some new paint before I'm ready to let her out into the world." Mostly, he seems to be okay with hanging out in the Italian's bakery and eating all his food. Sometimes Antonio will buy a loaf of _pane casereccio_ on his way out the door. Once, Lovino saw him sitting on a wall near the city center tearing pieces off the loaf, alternating between eating them himself and feeding them to the flock of adoring pigeons surrounding him.

More gifts have shown up on the porch of Lovino's bakery. In one week, he has collected a seashell, a bouquet of white violets, and a hawk's flight feather. They are forming a growing pile with the others next to his till, sans the tomato and the painting - he ate the tomato, and the painting is hanging on the back wall.

* * *

Today is a Thursday, and business is a little slow for Lovino. The flow of customers has all but slowed to a trickle in the mid-afternoon light, and the Italian has abandoned the till in favor of testing out a new savory bread recipe from his brother.

Lovino is in the middle of kneading the dough when the doorbell tinkles. "I'll be with you in a moment," he yells, plopping the dough back into its bowl. He scrapes his fingers free of the last sticky strings and, covering the bowl with a plate, walks out into the main bakery.

Antonio is standing just inside the door, head cocked. The Spaniard straightens, shuffling a little over the creaky floorboards. Lovino takes a dish towel from the hook on the wall and begins cleaning the vestiges of dough from his fingers. With calculated disinterest he says, "What are you doing here? It's a little later than usual for you to be here," and then clams up again, realizing his comment makes it sounds like he's been keeping tabs on Antonio or something. _As if._

Antonio just laughs, giving a content smile before replying, "No coffee for me today. Just stopping by, but I didn't see you at the till."

"I was making bread in the back. Business has been slow enough I decided it would be a good excuse to try out a new recipe my brother gave me."

"You have a younger brother?"

The Italian gives Antonio a nonplussed look. "How do you know Feli's younger than me?"

Antonio smiles like it's the most obvious thing in the world before nodding definitively saying, "The way you talk about him. You sound so protective, I figured he must be your junior."

"Protective my grandfather's denchers. Feliciano's a right pain in my ass, and with how scatter-brained he is… _Dio mio..._ "

"I don't believe that," the Spaniard solemnly says, "because I have an older brother, and no matter how much we fight, well, family is family." A contented look crosses Antonio's face.

"Yes, well…" Lovino makes a distasteful face and tosses the rag towel onto the counter. "What do you want, Antonio?"

"Like I said, just stopping by."

"Why? Aren't you busy enough?" Lovino's voice comes out testier than he'd intended, and he turns away to head back into the kitchen. He expects the other man to leave, wants the other man to leave, is so completely out of his depth with a man so perceptive he can tell Feli's age by Lovino's inflection. Lovino pushes through the swinging door into the back and resolves himself to finishing the bread dough.

Behind him, the swinging door flaps erratically as Antonio ducks into the kitchen after the Italian.

"Not particularly. I'm waiting for a stove to come in from Palermo, but the delivery man phoned and told me he wouldn't be stopping in Altamura for another week." Antonio speaks as if Lovino had not just snapped at him.

Feeling too cowardly to turn around, Lovino shot over his shoulder, "You shouldn't be back here. You haven't followed food safety protocol."

Antonio laughs lightly and doesn't say anything, but crosses the room to the sink. The running water sounds a little too loud in this unnatural silence, almost as if the roaring isn't coming from the derelict steel faucet but between his ears.

To break the silence, the Italian yanks the dough out of the bowl and savagely cuts it in two pieces with the dough scraper. He flours his hands and begins kneading a lump with enough force to make the old wood table creak. In his periphery Lovino can see the Spaniard toweling his hands dry. He pretends to ignore Antonio as the other man sidles up on his right.

Antonio wordlessly dips his hands in the flour and dusts them before taking another handful and sifting it across the battered countertop. He takes the other lump of dough from the bowl and drops it onto the pocked wood with a definitive plop.

Lovino keeps kneading, pausing occasionally to re-flour his hands. He refuses to spare the other man so much as a glance.

Antonio stretches the dough across the counter, folding the end up and inward with the heel of his hand. His easy silence falls into a rhythm with the soft sibilance of the bread.

"My brother is ten years my senior. Not too big an age difference, but enough for him to feel more like a second father than a sibling," Antonio says, pausing to re-flour his hands. "We've never gotten along well; in part, I guess, because he was almost a teen by my birth. It was better when I was little; he would defend me from bullies and he practically raised me. But we drifted apart, and then he went off to college in Portugal. I didn't see him much during that time, and we were both so head-strong neither of us wanted to compromise or back down. I remember almost hating him as a teenager."

Lovino finally looks up from the table. "What's his name?"

"Afonso. Afonso Lisboa Carriedo."

Looking at Antonio's hands proves to be a suitable second option to meeting the Spaniard's gaze, and Lovino is surprised at the mastery with which the other man's fingers stretch and pull the dough. For the first time, Lovino realizes the Spaniard has long fingers - not thin like Feli's, but strong and capable. The backs of Antonio's hands are ridged with veins, the knuckles stark under tan skin. His fingers taper into the characteristic blunt nails and rugged cuticles of an active young man. Flour rims the underside of his nails and the torn piece of skin on his left thumb. Lovino looks down at his own hands which, while not small, look delicate in comparison to Antonio's; undoubtedly, the other man has almost and entire knuckle on him.

The silence yawns again, and Lovino hastily says, "What's he doing now?" He begins portioning the dough into individual _laterza_ , crusting the bottoms in cornmeal.

I think he's living in Lisbon right now. We started talking over the phone a couple of years ago - after we both put aside a bit of our egos and came to our senses. He was seeing a Dutch bloke for a while, but from what I gather they ended up fighting tooth and nail, and the blondie took my brother's dog with him when he left. Most recently, there was a man with monstrous - I mean monstrous - eyebrows. We met once when 'Fonso brought him round on holiday, but Eyebrows and I got in a fist fight. I don't think they're seeing each other any more."

Lovino raises an eyebrow, but Antonio doesn't seem to find anything out of the ordinary talking about getting in brawls with his brother's boyfriends. It's a little hard for the Italian to picture blood on Antonio's knuckles, and he glances once more to the dough in the other man's hands.

"What about your _hermanito_?" The question catches Lovino off guard, and he splutters for a moment. "Tell me about him; you've been letting me do all the talking."

"There's not much to say." His reply is clipped.

"There's always a lot to say. People are large; they contain multitudes."

"Don't quote Oscar Wilde at me," Lovino mumbled halfheartedly, "and anyway, Feli's hard to describe."

"Try."

"Well, he's my twin, but I'm older by 27 minutes. Feliciano's a little empty-headed, but everyone adores him. He's funny, and talented - he's a good cook and an excellent painter. Sometimes, it seems like he has this uncanny intuition, like he can guess anything I'm about to say - _Nonno_ says it's because we're twins, but I think Feli's just perceptive. But he does stupid things, and he doesn't listen to his big brother, and he's so trusting. It's his biggest gift, and it's whats going to hurt him some day," Lovino sighs and passes a hand across his face, leaving a streak of flour behind.

"You love him." A simple statement.

"He's a little shit."

"But despite that you take twenty minutes to call him on Fridays - right after you call your _abuelo_ \- and you're testing out his new bread recipe. Those paintings by the till - those are his, aren't they?"

Lovino groans tiredly. "Shut up."

"And that green jumper you're always wearing - he made that for you, didn't he? The stitching is lumpy at the bottom, and the pattern uneven, so it's handmade but not by you, because you treat it like it's the bones of Christ himself.

You may not get along with your little brother, but you love him. I understand these things." Antonio nods, and Lovino realises the Spaniard has finished shaping his _laterza_.

Lovino snatches up the _lame_ , cutting wide slashes in the dough to open pores for breathing. Seeing the dough part like paper is satisfying, but the savagery of the action is vaguely unsettling.

Antonio follows suit, crusting the bottoms of his _laterza_ in cornmeal and then slashing the tops with the _lame_.

In lieu of speaking, the Italian slides the loaves onto a pizza peel and covers them with a towel to rise. He sets the peel on the far counter and busies himself with tidying up the kitchen. Lovino drops bowls and utensils in the sink with more noise than necessary, and he brushes aggressively at the last vestiges of flour.

He can tell Antonio is still there, but he won't look at him - their conversation about their brothers seems too personal and too raw to cheapen with a glance. With the way Antonio stands silently, it feels like the Spaniard has stared - is staring - into Lovino's soul. He turns on the tap to distract himself and thrusts his hands into the water, which too late he realizes, is scalding. He bites back a gasp of pain, but just soaps the mixing bowl and scrubs furiously with the dish rag.

The steam moistens Lovino's brow.

A shadow falls behind him, and Antonio puts out a hand to turn down the faucet, which was splashing everywhere.

"That's a little better, don't you think?" Antonio says, "It seemed a little hot before."

"Yeah, whatever. Don't you have someplace to be?" Lovino can't bite back the sharp retort, though he cringes.

"Not in particular. Would you like me to dry?" The change in tack catches Lovino off guard, and all he does is grunt.

The towel slithers off its peg, and then Antonio is receiving the newly washed kitchenware, his fingers brushing cool and dry against Lovino's damp knuckles. The two don't speak and silence settles around them once more, but it seems gentler now.

* * *

That night after Antonio is gone, having disappeared down the lane with his customary smile and wave, Lovino sweeps the floor and puts up the chairs before ducking into the kitchen again. He takes one last look around and shoots a perfunctory glare at the _laterza_ rising on the counter.

But the steel mixing bowl winks on the counter, holding the memory of damp fingers and a Spanish smile.

* * *

 **A/N:**

1\. A _lame_ (la - may) is a French knife used to make the characteristic slashes in the tops of bread loaves; it helps them breath and expand while cooking. I own one - super sharp and scary ~(^o^")~

2\. _laterza_ = type of Italian small loaf

Himaruya really doesn't have much information out on Portugal so I mostly did some guesswork when deciding how to describe him - but I really wanted a quick mention of him in here to contrast his relationship with Spain with Lovi and Feli (who will be showing up at some point if I ever get my act together enough to finish chapters in a timely fashion). Most of the things about Portugal/Spain's relationship are references to their actual history etc… I don't really like using characters that Himaruya hasn't referenced much simply because I don't feel I can do them justice with such minimal character development - it feels too much like using an OC. I figured it was worth it for this brief passage (he doesn't show up for the rest of the fic except for maybe a passing mention).

Also, I've now written an outline for the next ten or so chapters - I feel this will be a long-ish fic so buckle up - so this may help it go a little faster


	6. Poppy of the Road

_**A/N:**_ _Oh my GOD. I can't believe I neglected this fic for so long jfc I totally dropped the ball! Has it been almost a year? It's probably been about a year… Oh my god I have committed the cardinal sin of fic writing. You guys have left so many wonderful comments; I've read them, and you all are so sweet, thank you for bearing with me. I kinda fell out of the Hetalia fandom for a bit, and I'm really not all that attached anymore, but I still have a couple pairings that I absolutely adore, so I'll finish the fics I'm working on and see about maybe doing some more things in this fandom. I have an outline for much of the rest of this, so we'll see if that keeps me on track any better…_

* * *

Fall begins in earnest now, and the trees in the Altamura countryside turn from green to gold like kindling catching fire. Leaves blow in on the cool night breeze, fetching up in Lovino's doorway and settling in drifts in the back alley.

Antonio's stove arrives from Palermo, only for the baker to realize the stove is bigger than his doorway, so Lovino-will-you-please-help-me? The debacle is only resolved after Lovino removes the Spaniard's back-alley double doors and rolls the stove in sideways on some dowels. _Obviously I know carpentry, you fool, I'm Italian._ Lovino re-hangs and levels the doors for free, saying _Chill, it's just common courtesy._ Antonio returns the next day with a plate of magdalenas, impervious to Lovino's bark of _that's totally not food safe, bringing your own goods in,_ saying that he has to repay the favor. The magdalenas are fluffy and sweet, and Lovino is forced to concede that Antonio holds his own in the kitchen. He will be tough competition indeed.

Of course, Lovino admits none of this aloud.

Autumn brings with it the harvest, and Lovino has his hands full making grape focaccia and swiss chard panini and squash risotto and wild mushroom galettes. In preparation for opening his shop, Antonio repaints, lays tile, and varnishes all available wood surfaces until Lovino is afraid the Spaniard will gas himself with fumes - _but I wear the proper mask,_ wheedles Antonio when Lovino surreptitiously brings up the matter. All this work doesn't stop Antonio from taking his afternoon repast in Lovino's shop, even when caked in stucco and caulking. Lovino just hands him a towel and shoos him out back to rinse down with the alley hose ( _Don't you have running water in your own building, bastard?)_. The cappuccino ladies return in full force to see Antonio with sopping hair and paint on his nose - Lovino can't bring himself to turn them out (the hypocrisy of it, and all). Lovino _definitely_ isn't looking closely enough to notice how Antonio's damp curls stick at the nape of his neck.

Neither of the men mention the evening making bread together. Lovino fumes and stutters even thinking about it; Antonio, it seems, is willing to let sleeping dogs lie.

The gifts still appear on the bakery doorstep from time to time - a dogeared copy of Margaret Atwood, a laurel crown. Lovino opens shop one day to find some hand copied sheafs of Pablo Neruda tucked into the door jam. He looks up and down the lane, and then at the papers. "I can't read Spanish," Lovino grumbles, and takes the copies grudgingly to Antonio, who flushes pink and refuses to read them aloud. Instead he gives the Italian a link to an reliable online translator and a scribbled list on Spanish grammar. Lovino soon understands Antonio's apprehension - 'I love you like one loves certain dark things' and all that. _Dio mi salvi._

He takes the new copies to Antonio, who shuffles through the pages and comments on Lovino's translations. "Do you like Neruda?" asks Antonio over his afternoon espresso, Lovino using a coffee break as an excuse to monopolize the Spaniard's time. "He's all right," says Lovino, "But I find his work can be somewhat dark."

"I think he's a realist," rebuts Antonio. "If we analyze love sonnet seventeen, Neruda talks about loving his partner between his shadow and soul - not all love can be described in classical terms, and love is often more complex than its romanticization by poets. Neruda's love is a little darker, but life is a little dark; I think Neruda recognizes both that people are flawed and love imperfectly, and that perfect love is not always satisfying." He looks steadily at the Italian, and Lovino is forced to concede.

Antonio switches tack. "Do you have much experience with other Spanish poets?"

"Not really; I don't speak Spanish, and I generally only studied Italian compositions in secondary school,"

"I have a recommendation for you then," says Antonio, pulling a pencil from his pocket and tearing off a blank section of the day's paper. Lovino gives him a black look.

"I pay for those, you know."

"Sorry, Lovi." A smile - not at all repentant. Lovino huffs.

"Try _Novia del Campo, Amapola_ , by Juan Ramón Jiménez." Antonio pushes the scrap of paper across the table to Lovino, title and author scribbled out in block printing. "If you prefer more optimistic or simple love poetry, I think you will be pleased with this particular work." The Spaniard clears his throat as if suddenly self-conscious, and says little else the duration of Lovino's break. They both return to work, and the paper burns a hole in Lovino's jumper pocket the rest of the day.

* * *

That night in his apartment Lovino pulls out his laptop, connects to the finicky wifi, and runs a search on _Novia del Campo, Amapola_. 93,400 results, 0.64 seconds. He adds Juan Ramón Jiménez. 13,700 results, 0.72 seconds.

He finds a text in Spanish, pulls out his grammar notes and loads the translator.

 _Novia del campo, amapola / que estás abierta en el trigo; /_

Lovino tackles the title and makes short work of the first two lines.

( _Bride of the field, poppy / That has opened among the wheat; / )_

amapolita, amapola /

 _(Little poppy, poppy / )_

¿te quieres casar conmigo?

( _would you like to marry me?)_

* * *

Lovino's feedback the next day is short.

 _How was_ _it?_

 _It was nice._

He doesn't say much else the rest of the day, but Antonio looks very serene and wise occupying his customary window seat.

 _Te dar_ é _toda mi alma /_

 _(I will give you all of my soul / )_

* * *

October fast approaches, the two are busy, and Lovino sees less of Antonio than he would like (he would never admit it).

Lovino takes out the garbage one evening and sees a wooden sandwich board sign outside Antonio's bakery. _Opening the twelfth of October,_ it says. Lovino isn't sure how to feel about this. The threat of competition rankles with him, though he knew the Spaniard would be opening eventually. _Four days_ , he thinks to himself, _and my friend_ \- he pauses on the word in hesitation - _will mbecome my competitor._

 _tendrás agua y tendrás pan. / Te daré toda mi alma,toda mi alma de galán. /_

 _(You will have water and you will have bread. / I will give you all my soul, all my gallant soul./ )_

He stops Antonio in the street early the next morning. Balancing a flat of chestnuts on one hip he flags the Spaniard down saying, "Why didn't you tell me you were opening sooner?" His annoyance evidently shows in his tone because Antonio does some mental regrouping before saying carefully, "In truth, I did not expect to be finished so fast. I had hoped to have more time to enjoy myself before opening week, which will no doubt be very busy. But my _pastelería_ , my baby, she is complete, and I would do well to be firmly established by the time _la navidad_ rolls around…" Lovino appears mollified, and Antonio takes that as a cue to continue. "Anyway, opening day's the twelfth, and I'd like it if you came." He shuffles from foot to foot and looks cautiously at the Italian.

"Yeah, sure," says Lovino, "I guess I can swing by for a bit." He feigns business with his box of chestnuts, waves farewell, and beats a hasty retreat back into his bakery. Lovino feels off-balance the rest of the day, the sandwich board repeatedly catching his eye. The cappuccino girls are plotting in the corner, and he knows they will make an appearance on Antonio's opening day. He doesn't know why this displeases him, and chalks it up to resentment of competition.

 _Tendrás una casa pobre, / yo te querré como un niño, / tendrás una casa pobre / llena de sol y cariño. /_

 _(You will have a humble house, / I will love you like a child, / you will have a humble house, / full of sun and love. / )_

The morning of October the twelfth is cold. Almost unseasonably so for southern Italian autumn. Lovino rises early, takes an espresso and biscotti (for productivity), and hits a roadblock in front of his bedroom mirror. He can't decide what to wear.

"Me, a grown man, anxiously deliberating over outfits like a lovestruck schoolgirl," he scoffs, ripping clothing out of his dresser in angry abandon, "Why are you having so much trouble today, you clod? It's not like you ever care otherwise."

Another half an hour passes. Thunderclouds may or may not be gathering around Lovino's apartment - or the noise may just be the Italian's mounting frustration.

With a fuck-it-my-fritta-should-have-been-in-the-oven-hours-ago, Lovino throws on a light blue button down and dark grey slacks, and rushes out the door. He grabs his wool coat from the hat stand as an afterthought - the breeze is nippy today.

 _Yo te labraré tu campo, / tú irás por agua a la fuente, / yo te regaré tu campo / con el sudor de mi frente. /_

 _( I will work your fields, / you will go to the fountain for water, / I will water your field / with the sweat of my brow. / )_

Lovino's mood declines over the course of the morning. The delivery man has no spinach - _what produce man has no spinach?_ \- so the fritta is eschewed in hasty favor of tomato focaccia.

He burns the bottom crust. There's not enough cornmeal. The wood oven is running too hot. Lovino is grumpy.

Lovino's mood darkens as he sees the line of people queuing up at Antonio's door. The Italian checks the clock - 7:00 in the morning. Lovino' been open for half an hour and the only person who's come in is Old Man Moretti, who doesn't really count because he comes every morning and spends the day occupying the left window. Right now, the old man's head is barely poking out above his newspaper, the bill of his ascot cap just visible. Lovino glares uncharitably but the old man is fixated on his paper, dunking his biscotti in his espresso and gumming it absentmindedly.

 _Amapola del camino, / roja como un corazón, /_

 _(Poppy of the road, / red like a heart, / )_

Lovino attacks the floor with his broom, hoping to let off tension; it's a resounding failure. The crease between his eyebrows is now as menacing as the Italian Alps. There's no dust on the floor to begin with, and the broom is flung back in the corner. Lovino strangles a dish towel. He obsessively polishes the counter. It's only 9:30. He catches himself combing his hair, stops in disgust, and vows to _just get this over with_.

* * *

However good Lovino's plan sounded in his head, he didn't really factor into account how far the _pasteleria_ seems across the street. The cobbled road is a wide gulf. The people passing through the door become a torrent. Lovino's stomach twists unpleasantly and he tugs in agitation at his shirt tails.

Reaching Antonio's door is a beautiful and terrible thing all at once. _It wasn't that far across the street, you coward._ The Italian's stomach is still in knots, however. Music floats out to him every time someone opens the door, but Lovino cannot bring his feet to move.

With a truncated curse, Lovino lurches forward - by some small miracle he makes it through the doorway without tripping over his feet. He comes close, though.

There are people _everywhere_. Every table is full, every seat filled, there are people milling by the door and around the counter. The cappuccino girls have staked out valuable real estate at the cafe bar counter. Music, quiet from outside, is now loud and lively in the room. A guitar harmony dances around the walls and a woman's voice is melodious over the stereo.

 _Yo te haré cantar, y al son / de la rueda del molino. /_

 _(I will make you sing to the sound/ of the noisy mill wheel./)_

Lovino cautiously works his way through the throng to the well-stocked display cases. In addition to staples like _pan de higo_ and magdalenas there are _tartas de santiago_ dusted with powdered sugar and chocolate-filled miguelitos. A pile of _chebakia_ is stacked on the top shelf.

"They're technically not Spanish," says Antonio, materializing over Lovino's shoulder, "But there was a Moroccan bakery near my apartment in college, and I'm afraid I've become somewhat hooked on them." He points at the _chebakia_.

Antonio navigates the pair of them to the till and slips behind the counter. With far too much insouciance he says, "What can I get for you today?" He leans in across the counter. Lovino blinks; the bakery is very loud indeed, and the crush of people around him is getting to be too much. Nothing leaves his mouth save a stuttering "aa-a-aaa." Fantastic.

"Well," Antonio continues blithely, "I would recommend the miguelitos. They are like nothing you've ever tasted."

The press of people behind Lovino is growing increasingly thick, and all Lovino can manage is a nod.

 _Yo te haré cantar, y al son / de la rueda dolorida, /_

 _(I will make you sing / and to the sound of the sorrowful wheel,/)_

The Spaniard retrieves a miguelito from the display case with a square of wax paper and holds it up. The other man makes a move to take it, but Antonio holds it to Lovino's lips. "Take a bite."

 _Dio mi salvi_.

Lovino awkwardly takes a bite before chewing. The pastry is delicious, but nerves make it stick in his throat. He can feel the eyes of the cappuccino girls. Antonio places the rest of the miguelito in Lovino's palm, his hand warm and rough. Lovino forces himself to eat the other half - Antonio really has outdone himself.

Antonio pulls a small box from underneath the counter and lines it with paper. With quick efficiency he fills the box with a dozen of the small pastries and folds the lid closed. He slides it slowly across the counter toward Lovino, but doesn't remove his hand from the box.

Lightly Antonio says, "I wasn't sure if you would show up today, Lovi."

"I said I would." Lovino's reply is hoarse and quiet. He fumbles with his wallet and clears his throat. "How much do I owe you?"

"Consider it a gift," Antonio pauses, "And a taste of the competition." His smile is polite, but a little dangerous.

 _te abriré mi corazón, amapola de mi vida. /_

 _(You will unfold my heart, poppy of my life. / )_

Lovino manages to nod. He reaches for the box, hoping to beat a hasty retreat. The other man grabs his sleeve as he turns to leave. Lovino pivots, box in hand and a question forming on his lips and -

Antonio touches his face, runs a thumb across the Italian's lower lip, and Lovino's heart short-circuits. The dull hum of the crowd becomes the roaring of the sea. His mouth opens and closes, but he's fairly certain nothing comes out. _Why would Antonio ever -_

"You had powdered sugar on your face."

Lovino's terror crescendos in his ears as he grinds out a choked "Don't."

"Lovi?"

" _Dio mio_ , don't."

Antonio is looking at him questioningly. "I don't -"

Something small and cruel twists bitterly in Lovino's stomach. "Your dazzling smiles and cheap tricks won't work on me. You might have a new bakery, and the town in the palm of your hand, but if anyone comes out on top it will be me. _And don't call me Lovi._ "

Antonio recoils sharply and Lovino can see hurt in his eyes. There is a heavy pause. Conversations nearest them still, and Lovino can feel eyes on his back. He bows his head. "I need to go." He leaves Antonio at the till, the other man's shoulders hunched in confusion and sadness.

 _Novia del campo, amapola, / que estás abierta en el trigo; /_

 _(Bride of the field, poppy, / that lies open among the wheat; / )_

Lovino flees, bumping shoulders as he rushes out the door. He doesn't realize until he's standing in his own shop that he's still holding the box of miguelitos. It takes ten minutes in the back room for Lovino's heart to stop racing, and only then does the shame set in.

It's only 10:00 in the morning but he flips the sign on the door and turns to Old Man Moretti. The old man nods absently, folds his paper, straightens his cap, and slowly shuffles out the door.

Lovino locks the front door behind him and drops the metal shutters with a clang.

He sweeps the floor, puts the chairs up, and sets the starter to rise. Then he turns out the lights.

Lovino leaves out the alley door - he cannot stand to pass before Antonio's shop.

The box of miguelitos remains on the counter in the dark.

 _amapolita, amapola, / ¿te quieres casar conmigo? /_

 _(little poppy, poppy, / would you like to marry me? / )_

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Wow this took so long to get out and I am so sorry! This was a wild ride of a chapter. Lovino is so scared - he's literally cockblocking himself because he can't believe anyone would be gay for him (this totally isn't modeled on me and my anxiety haha nope ok yes). Darling boy, you deserve all the happiness coming your way._

 _The poems:_

 _Love Sonnet 17; Pablo Neruda (neruda is one of my favorite poets go check him out)_

 _Novia del Campo, Amapola; Juan Ramón Jiménez (Note: This is the poem I used in this chapter - it's the spanish and english in italics. I did the translation on my own - I'm a fourth year Spanish student - but the original spanish text is not my own)_

 _The pastries:_

 _Pan de higo is a dense Spanish fig cake with almonds_

 _Magdalenas are little fluffy Spanish cakes (size of your palm aprox.)_

 _Tarta de Santiago is a sweet almond paste cake from northwestern Spain_

 _Miguelitos are little puff pastries that are super flakey and filled with chocolate_

 _Chebakia are Moroccan fried/baked twists of dough and almonds_


	7. Nighthawks

A/N: It's been a while since my last chapter, for which I apologize - I have been very busy with midterms and life in general. Finding the energy for writing is difficult, and I'd rather wait and give you guys a good chapter than rush and give you a poor one. I'm also working on another fic as well - it's been taking up my time recently because I'm a little behind. That said, I'm committed to finishing this - it's nowhere near done, and I'm excited to see where it goes from here.

* * *

Lovino is not sulking. He is simply conducting a strategic retreat to regroup and form a new plan. So far his plan consists of stiltedly avoiding Antonio during the morning produce pickup and yelping and blushing when their eyes meet. But he will deny sulking to everyone who asks and their mother.

Antonio so far hasn't pushed him to talk, but there is a question written in his eyes when he looks at Lovi through the window, his brow furrowing when he passes the shop. Lovino is not sure how long he can avoid him. He's not sure he can bear to speak to Antonio when the time comes. He's not even sure he can call by name the bitter creature that curls beneath his breastbone, gnawing at his heart.

He sticks to working in his bakery. He rises early and keeps his head down during the day and closes up late. The late nights are almost proving worse - the few customers that come in fail to distract Lovino from those thoughts the blue hours bring, swept in with the stars. The shop looks like that _Nighthawks_ painting Feli showed him once, and only now does he understand what Hopper must have felt, tried to express, an isolation so great he can hear the clinking dishwasher and buzz of electric diner lights through the canvas.

The bitter creature stirs in his breast, and Lovino thinks maybe its name is jealousy, but jealousy is close in nature to desire. When he looks into Antonio's green eyes, it's not hard to believe the creature's name is desire; _that_ is his secret fear.

* * *

Lovino makes it about a week before guilt, stuffed into the pit of his stomach, so desperately ignored, bubbles to the top. He's on his break, dunking a biscotti in his café au lait, when he sees Antonio come round the front of the store carrying a fifty pound flour sack. Indecision almost gets the better of him, and Lovino stands uncertainly until the sight of Antonio slipping around the corner jolts him to action.

He tears off his apron, biscotti falling into his mug. Lovino's out the door before the back of Antonio's shirt disappears. He skids around the corner, looking for the Spanish man. Antonio is fumbling with the rear door to his shop, flour sack balanced awkwardly on his hip. Lovino pauses. Antonio drops his key ring. He swears. He begins to set the bag down. Lovino closes his eyes, breathes _in and out_ , and steps forward.

"Let me get that for you."

Antonio startles, rearing back. "Lovi…" He seems uncertain of the boundaries of their relationship, and so says nothing more.

Lovino snatches the keys from the ground and jimmies the lock open. The situation seems ironically similar to when they first met, though he doubts the Spaniard, with his affable charm, got the nervous shakes holding the door for him. "After you."

The other man nods and shoulders his load, tilting past Lovino through the doorway. The flour sack is deposited on the counter with a grunt. Antonio leans back against the countertop and turns towards Lovino. He doesn't say anything, just fixes him with an appraising look, searching for answers. Lovino gets cold feet and scuffs his shoes on the floor, looking around.

Lovino has never been in Antonio's back room, never past the front counters actually, and it shocks him how quickly Antonio has insinuated himself into his life while offering few clues in return. His secrecy sits poorly with the Italian, who feels like an open book around the other man. This resentment also sits poorly, the knowledge that he wants to know everything about Antonio, while not having the slightest right to ask.

"Lovi, what is this about?"

Lovino looks up at Antonio, makes the mistake of meeting his gaze, and drops his eyes back to the floor. In the other man's eyes he sees neither judgement nor reproach, only curiosity; this is somehow worse, Antonio's tolerance an unwitting weapon.

"I thought I ought to offer you … an apology." He doesn't take his eyes off the floor, but he hears Antonio shift his weight against the counter.

"Oh?"

He clears his throat. "For last week. My behavior was childish. It was wrong of me."

"Lovi, look at me." Lovino exhales softly, and directs his gaze to the far wall. He's not sure what will happen if he looks the other man in the eye.

" _Lovino_ , look at me." His full name. The rest of the air leaves Lovino's lungs in a _woosh_ and he locks eyes with Antonio. He abruptly shies away, and then forces himself to maintain eye contact.

"You don't have to apologize to me; I get it. It's ok." This startles Lovino. He's not sure what Antonio thinks he understands. Lovino can almost feel Antonio staring into his soul, seeing that bitter creature and calling it silently by name. He is not sure whether he prefers the other man pick Jealousy or Desire; neither are safe, known places of residence. Either way, the acceptance in Antonio's eyes is too much, and Lovino once more gives his undivided attention to the floor.

"Let's have some coffee." Antonio turns and busies himself with the pour-over he has stashed back here. His back is to Lovino, broad shoulders obscuring his work, but he appears satisfied to conclude their conversation on this note. Lovino is grateful for the segue.

Antonio's approach draws Lovino from his thoughts. The other man comes bearing sturdy ceramic mugs in one hand, long fingers looped dangerously through the handles, and some plates in the other, balanced up along his arm. Divesting himself of his load on the center island, he spins two high-backed chairs over with a clatter, plopping himself long-leggedly into one while waving a hand at Lovino to take the other. Obligingly, Lovino sits.

Antonio settles down comfortably, leaning forward over the back of the chair, arms braced on the top slat, mug looped lazily from two fingers. The coffee seems to have somewhat melted the conversational ice , and Antonio is more than happy to sleepily monopolize the air time.

He pushes a plate across the countertop - it has a slice of dense loaf cake on it, dusted with some white powder. Almond flour?

"Try the _pan de higo_? I still can't find the Spanish figs that I want, but it's pretty good. Considering Italy's rich history with figs, I was hoping for some feedback."

Lovino breaks off a corner of the slice. The other man watches intensely as he chews. The crumb of the cake is solid and moist. Little seeds, so unique to the fig, to Lovino's childhood of running barefoot in his grandfather's fields with juice down his chin and sap on his arms, scraped legs from carelessly scaling wizened bark, pop under his teeth. The flavor is dark and a little earthy, almost sensual. The powder sticks to his lower lip. He swipes it away with his tongue. Antonio breaks off a piece as well, chewing it slowly, and his eyes are dark while watching Lovino. There is powder on his lips and _dio mio what is it with this man?_

"Well?"

Lovino takes a moment to clear his throat. "It's … umm … " _how eloquent._ "It's good. - " _ok try again._ " - it's a little like something my _nonno_ makes. He has so many fig trees - an orchard, really. And he's a magician in the kitchen. So we ate a lot of interesting things as kids."

Antonio perks up. "A farmer?"

"Yeah, southeast of Rome. Olives and stone fruits, largely. And figs, of course. And his vegetable garden. And wheat - for the longest time, he used a horse drawn plow; he only stopped when he threw his back out, and now the neighboring boys come by with their tractor to help, and be paid in baked goods."

"Well." Antonio looks impressed. "I'm glad it's up to Italian snuff."

"It's good. But I'm getting an interesting flavor… whiskey?"

"Yeah - 90 proof. I soaked the fruit in it - it keeps everything moist. It's not traditional, but I wanted to test it out. Usually we use rum or sherry - this is more like the English equivalent, which is a little blasphemous for a Spaniard, but I like the flavor profile. Historic vendettas are all outweighed by the universality of booze."

Lovino laughed. "I'll drink to that."

A little more of the afternoon slips away as the two chat in the back room, Lovino regretfully excusing himself at the two-hour mark in the conversation. His heart is the lightest it's been in a week and the bitter creature finally sleeps.

* * *

September comes to a close, taking with it the honey-warm evenings; now night falls fast and cold. Lovino's cabled sweaters are an omnipresent fixture during the morning produce pickups and when locking up in the evenings.

Antonio expresses a sort of marvelous wonderment over the Italian's jumpers. He invades Lovino's personal space in the mornings, fingering the lumpy cables, hooking fingers in the pockets, looming close and smothering Lovino in the bulky canvas coat he's taken to wearing. He keeps a running tally of the sweaters and their provenance.

"The rust red one?"

"Another gift from my brother. See how the hem bunches unevenly?"

Antonio fingers the hem. "I like it. It's laughing."

Lovino rolls his eyes.

The coarse-worsted earth colored one, with the rolled sleeves, is from the di Morandi family at the edge of town.

"They don't have a lot of money. I let them buy on credit; repayment comes sometimes as euros, sometimes as other things. I don't bother with seeing if their payment covers their line of credit. They do what they can."

The variegated knit-stitch one - the color of the sea off the coast - is the nicest one. It's detailing is so fine, the seams perfectly even, each stitch laid perfectly. It's made of soft merino wool, and when Antonio sees it, he runs his hands over it appreciatively.

"This was made with a lot of love."

"My _nonna_ gave it to me. She made the best sweaters; we always got them growing up."

Antonio tucks his face into the neck at Lovino's left shoulder. Lovino stiffens beneath him. Antonio completely misreads the situation. "When?"

"Two summers ago."

"I'm sorry. She sounds like a wonderful woman."

Lovino _is_ sad but Antonio's face is stubbly where it touches his neck, his breath soft across his collar, and that seems to the Italian like a more likely explanation for his shivering. The Spaniard has always been this tactile, he reminds himself, when his heart does an embarrassing flutter. And he's probably cold. Even under his bulky coat. Yes, that's it.

* * *

Antonio is once more a common fixture in the bakery - not as often now, but he can spare time many days. He pops in for anywhere between a half to a full hour during the afternoon siesta, usually before Lovino heads home for his lunch. He brings pastries to share and drapes himself over any convenient surface - or, more, frequently, Lovino himself - while nattering away about this and that.

Antonio also swings by sometimes in the evenings, in the hours before closing time when everyone comes to buy their dinner bread. Despite the time crunch, he always spares time for Lovino's patrons.

Thursdays are Chess Day for the _Signori_ Moretti and Abbadelli, and the Spaniard can be counted upon to good-naturedly play mediator between the two round, jolly, old men.

"What a lovely young man," says Abbadelli as Antonio slips away to speak with Lovino.

"Umph," grunts Moretti, who rarely says much of anything, but remains pleased with Antonio's quiet counsel. He studies the board for a moment and then skips his knight sideways. "Checkmate."

Abbadelli howls and shakes a curmudgeonly fist at Antonio's back, but he's smiling.

Signora Uccello, the former prima ballerina of _La Scala_ , is as old as Lovino's _nonno._ She comes in to take espresso and the paper like clockwork at 5:30 on weekdays, requesting without fail the music of her youth. Lovino is more than happy to oblige.

It's a Wednesday in early October, and Antonio comes early in the evening - _sorry, the only time I think I'll have a break; I'm swamped today_ \- to see her sitting at his usual window seat, tapping her foot to Edith Piaf's _Milord_. In an instant he stands before her, arm extended to ask her for a dance. She looks at him in surprise over the lip of her newspaper, and then her face lights up, every wrinkle and fold of skin pulling into a dazzling smile.

Signora Uccello rises slowly from her seat and in that instant sheds fifty years of life, the patina of age sloughing off to reveal the twenty-something prima dancing before a teeming crowd. Antonio leads her in a sedate foxtrot, and then a mincing two-step, next a whirling bolero that separates from the music entirely, and finally back into a playful lindy just in time for the next song. The pair swing across the café floor. Antonio's laugh comes breathless and musical. The Signora's eyes are full of diamonds.

He sets her down in her seat when the music ends and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Her silvery hair is coming down, dress in disarray. She musses his hair and sends him packing with a mock swat to the behind. Her laugher - like tiny bells - follows him as he prances outlandishly toward the counter, extending a hand to Lovino.

 _No Lovino won't be persuaded to dance he is working thank you very much._

Antonio manages to steal a short one anyway.

Signora Uccello watches them closely, shakes her head, and smiles.

* * *

On the second Monday of October, there's another package on the bakery porch, wrapped in brown waxed paper and tied with twine. A squish from Lovino and the bundle deflates lumpily. He unwraps it inside, paper and string spread across the window seat bakery table. The thing in the bundle reveals itself to be in fact multiple things. The package's deflatory nature is owed to a jumper, knit from thick mohair the color of honey, of sunshine through brandy, of September. It fuzzes beneath his fingers and promises warmth with a soft smile. More items roll across the tabletop when the jumper is unfolded: a pot of fig jam; a hollow gourd filled with a rattling something-or-other; a river-stone the size of a quail egg, one side broken away by years of rushing water to reveal a gleaming, jagged crystal the color of the sky.

The jam goes on a shelf in the back room, to be taken home when he closes for lunch and placed in his pantry.

He hangs the gourd from one of the wall lamps near the arm chairs.

After a moment's hesitation, Lovino pulls the sweater over his robin's egg button-down. It's just the right kind of loose, and he sinks into it with a sigh.

The stone is set with the other eclectic morning-treasures by the register; it winks at him when he passes.

* * *

A/N: Oh Lovino you silly silly boy.

In case anyone doesn't know, the Lindy is a dance similar to the Charleston only faster, and the Bolero is a Spanish dance with Afro-Cuban roots similar to the rumba. Antonio can definitely dance ;)

Stuff picks up quicker here - you guys get to meet some new people next chapter B)


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